


way down we go

by dansunedisco



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 18:40:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5467001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dansunedisco/pseuds/dansunedisco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one says it -- at least in a language she knows -- but Octavia knows that that’s it.</p><p>She’s married now.</p><p>-</p><p>Lincoln/Octavia + arranged marriage AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	way down we go

The grounders aren’t what Octavia expects. They’re fierce, eyes smeared with something she can only describe as warpaint; clothes cobbled together with scraps of metal and fabric her mother never worked on. She’s fascinated, all of the kids are, but the grounders not as curious of the hundred as they are of them. 

No, they swarm their pathetic camp with a purpose.

A woman steps forward. The rest of the grounders step aside for her like the hundred do for Clarke and Bellamy. “Where is your leader?” she asks, gaze scanning the crowd with piercing eyes. 

“Who’s asking?” Murphy spits out before anyone sensible can answer. Someone thumps him, and both Clarke and Bellamy step forward, together. 

The woman looks amused, perhaps just realizing that the group before her are simply children, indefensible and young. After a beat, she waves her hand for Clarke and Bellamy to follow her. Octavia doesn’t like this at all, she just got Bellamy back. What if this woman plans to kill them? They already stabbed a spear through Jasper and left him to die, to be _eaten_ by a mutated jaguar.

She darts forward, but she’s stopped abruptly by a hand on her upper arm.

She turns to chew whoever’s touching her out, but it’s not anyone she knows. It’s a grounder, and he gives her an barely perceptible shake of his head,  _no_. She’s not sure what to do, and her split second indecision allows for Bellamy to leave without her.

The stranger lets her go, and she folds her arm up to her chest. It’s not like his grip was strong -- in fact, she would call it gentle -- but he stopped her from going to her brother, and she doesn’t like being left behind, not being able to voice her objects, one bit.

The hundred seem to feel the same, hushed voices rising up into a dull murmur through the camp.

“Where is she taking them?” she asks the grounder.

She doesn’t expect him to reply, but he does. “There’s a war room not far from here.” His voice is soft, but his words aren’t comforting.

“A war room?” The gap in the grounders where their leader led her brother and Clarke away is closed up now, and she sees their spears and their swords glinting in the streams of light coming down through the trees. They look casual about it, though it honestly feels like anything but. Like they’re waiting for one command to commence the slaughter. Plainly said, she’s nervous. “What do you -- what do you do in this is ‘war room’ of yours?”

“I don’t know,” he says, face impassive. “I’ve never been in one before.”

She can’t tell if he’s lying, but why would he? She supposes it’s for leaders or planners, and perhaps he’s not one of either. It’s not like she knows anything about anything down here. The grounders, for the most part, look all the same to her. “Should I be worried?”

He doesn’t reply. 

“She took my  _brother_ ,” she explains, finding a bit of fury in that statement.

Still, he doesn’t reply.

She presses her lips together, and starts formulating a plan.

Night falls. Bellamy and Clarke don’t return. The grounders stay and build fires in the pits the hundred set up days prior. Some of them leave and bring wild game back to roast on makeshift spits. They don’t offer any to the hundred, but they don’t allow them to leave the immediate area, either. Murphy tried early on, and received a black eye for it. 

Octavia can see the misery on everyone’s faces as they watch the grounders eat their fill. They’ve been perpetually hungry since they crash landed, toxic berries and infrequent meals barely enough to go on. She’s used to being hungry, but most of the kids--well, they aren’t. Spirits are low, and she’s not sure what to do. It doesn’t take long for her to realize there isn’t anything she  _can_ do. Not here, anyway. 

She heads to the dropship. It’s one of the areas the grounders haven’t barred them from going freely. Monty’s inside, looking over a still-healing Jasper. He looks up nervously when she enters.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

“Nothing new,” she replies, having filled him in earlier about the supposed ‘war room’ and what little else she knows. “Bell and Clarke aren’t back yet. I’m gonna try to leave and find them. Do some recon.”

Jasper tries to sit up, alarmed. “Are you crazy? They’ll --” 

She slaps a hand over his mouth at the same time that Monty wrestles him back into a reclining position. “Shut up!” they hiss in unison.

Jasper nods, resigned, and she removes her hand. “They’ll hurt you if you try to leave,” he finishes.

“If they catch me, you mean,” she replies.

Both boys exchanged concerned looks at this.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Monty says. “They’re everywhere. They punched Murphy.” 

“Yeah, and they stabbed me!” Jasper adds. “With a spear!”

Octavia frowns. “This isn’t a democracy, you two,” she says. “I’m going. I just wanted to let someone know. Just in case.”

Just in case what, Octavia herself doesn't know.

She sneaks down the service hatch after enlisting Monty to help her unscrew its bolts and lift it aside, hands and feet carefully finding the ladder rungs as she goes. It’s dark, and it’s cramped. It’s lucky she’s small and well acquainted with tight spaces. The miniscule light from inside the dropship isn’t enough, so she has to feel her way around. There’s an intake duct down here -- she only knows because she heard Raven talk about it briefly -- and she pumps her fist in victory when she finally finds it. She uses the screwdriver to take the panels off, and she pops it off, struggling to lower it gently. It’s heavy. She ducks out, breathing heavier than before, and heaves the panel back in place.

It’s dark on this side of the ship. She can hear the grounders talking and the fire crackling, but it’s dim. Dim enough you’d really have to look to see her. The forest is right there, and she tiptoes towards the trees, stomach swimming with excitement. There’s a giant fallen log she has to drag herself over at one point, which she does with minor struggling, and then she’s free. No one caught her. It feels like a miracle, but more likely the grounders believing them cowed and obedient after their show of mercilessness.

She takes a wide circle through the woods, going in the direction she thinks is right. She keeps the campfire to her back and orients herself with the stars in the sky, trying to recall the Earth skills Bellamy relayed to her about navigation. He was really bad at that class, and she was really bad at listening then, going through an angry streak because why did she need to learn anything about Earth when she couldn’t even go outside their front door? It’s stupid now, and mostly ironic. She wishes she paid attention. 

By some miracle, she finds another clearing with more grounders. She ducks behind some brambles and spies on them for a while, but she doesn’t see hide or hair of her brother. She chews the skin of her inner cheek, torn. She’s far already, and not confident in her abilities to find her way back to the dropship in the dark if she goes any further. She doesn’t want to turn around, but -- 

A hand sneaks around her mouth.

She screams and kicks and claws, but the hand tightens and another one sneaks around to pin her arms down. 

“Quiet,” her captor whispers into her ear, and she  _recognizes_ that voice.

It’s the grounder from before. She goes limp in his arms, spins around to point an accusatory finger in his face when he lets her go. “You were following me!” she hisses. 

“No. You’re bad at sneaking and covering your trail.” He grabs her wrist, gently like before, and pulls her behind him. “Your brother has returned.”

“What?” She pales, and stumbles along. “What happened? Is he okay?”

He lets go of her, and she follows. “I believe they’ve come to an agreement.”

She throws her hands up, frustrated. “Gee, thanks for all the information! You’re, like, a veritable fountain of it. ‘War room’, ‘your brother’s back’, ‘we may or may not kill you and all your friends’. Overflowing!”

He looks at her, and there’s just enough moonlight that she sees a mild smile on his face. She flushes suddenly, hit with the fact that this grounder is actually very, very handsome. But, more importantly, very, very dangerous.

“Sorry,” she mutters.

“I’m Lincoln,” he says after a moment. “But you may continue calling me a fountain if you’d like.”

She gapes. “That’s a -- that’s a joke. You said a joke.” She wrings her hands together, feeling weirdly shy. “I’m, um, Octavia, by the way.”

He stays quiet, but she swears he looks pleased.

The camp is in an uproar when they return, which is both good and bad. Good, because no one seems to realize Octavia was gone and subsequently returned. Bad, because the scene before her is chaotic. Murphy is yelling, Wells is standing in front of Clarke, and Bellamy is waving his gun around, also yelling. The rest of the grounders are grumbling, their leader looking terse. It’s not good. 

Octavia runs into the middle of it. Bellamy lowers his gun when he sees her, throws an arm around her shoulders when she barrels into him. “What’s happening, Bell?” she asks, searching his face for a hint.

He smooths a hand over her hair. “Don’t worry about it.”

Murphy spits. “Really? Because I think she should!”

Octavia steps back and out of Bellamy’s arms, confused.

Clarke crosses her arms and turns to Bellamy. “I hate to agree with Murphy,” she says with a low voice, “But she should know.”

“What? What should I know?” Clearly they’re all talking about her, and, from the way Bellamy was acting, she can’t imagine that any of it is good. She looks at the grounders, and then the hundred, but none of them give her an answer. She finds Lincoln in the crowd, but he he has nothing to give, either.

“You have until tomorrow night. We will wait for your answer,” the grounders’ leader declares in the lull, and then Murphy and Wells are back to arguing, spitting threats and posturing. Clarke stalks away, followed quickly by Raven.

Bellamy’s steps right back into Octavia’s personal space.

“Bell,” she says. “Bell, what do they want?”

“Nothing they’re going to get.”

It’s not an answer. She shrugs away from her brother’s hovering, frustrated by his grim expression. Is she dying? Is she supposed to be sacrificed to some creepy grounder alter?

She tells Bellamy not to follow her, for all the help he’s being. She knows one person who’ll be straight with her.

She finds Clarke talking furiously with Raven. The both of them fall silent as she approaches. 

“No need to stop on my account,” she snaps. She doesn’t like the way Clarke’s looking at her, like she’s a lost cause.

“Octavia,” Clarke starts, her gaze darting over Octavia’s shoulder. Bellamy didn’t follow her, but he’s hanging on the periphery like the overbearing helicopter he is. 

“Ignore him,” Octavia says. “You’ll tell me what’s going on. Won’t you?” 

Raven glances over at Clarke, a quick, silent exchange passing between them. 

“The grounders want an arranged marriage to solidify the treaty we struck with them,” Clarke says. “Someone from us to someone from them. Specifically --”

“Me?” she bursts out, incredulous. 

“Yes.” Clarke presses her lips together, a grim, defeated line.

Raven folds her arms. “It’s bullshit, is what it is. I don’t like it.”

“Neither do I,” Clarke agrees.

“But, why? Why me?”

Clarke sighs. “Because you’re Bellamy’s sister. They want leverage. They want to know we won’t -- we won’t betray them. I don’t even know why they think we’re capable of fighting back, but. They want you.” 

“Or else?” Octavia asks. She’s in shock, she thinks. It almost feels like getting caught by the guards on the Ark: unreal, unbelievable. She wants to laugh, but this situation is far from funny. How did they even know she was Bellamy’s sister? “Or else what?” 

“They obliterate us.”

 

-

 

The grounders clear out just as quickly as they came, and Octavia’s left to deal with the fallout. 

Murphy’s on a rampage, throwing a campaign to toss her over to the grounders. Not surprisingly, many of the hundred agree. She’s just one girl out of the lot, and if her marriage secures them food and shelter and protection, they’re willing to give her up.

It’s like being a pariah all over again -- the secret girl in the floorboards -- but worse. She didn’t think it was possible. She can’t walk through camp without someone saying something, blaming her for their impending slaughter, jeering at her to accept her fate. 

The few that don’t stay busy trying to find an alternative. They don’t have much longer until they have to choose. 

“What if I offer myself?” Bellamy asks.

Octavia is horrified. “ _No._ ” 

“Right -- no,” Clarke says. “Not to mention that we already asked. Remember?”

He frowns. “We can ask again. Or we can back out.”

“Of the treaty? Bellamy…” Clarke drags a hand through her hair. 

“It could work,” Raven cuts in. “We have enough fuel for me to make another wicked bomb or two, and I could re-wire the thrusters on the dropship. Get everyone inside and fry ‘em once they attack.”

Octavia gapes as Bellamy and Clarke and Raven start talking about roasting grounders, that they could fight back, maybe even come out on top.

It’s ridiculous. Almost as crazy as marrying her off, but still.

She thinks of all the kids that have died so far. She thinks that if they go to battle against these grounders, real, battle-tested warriors, more would, too. There are kids here -- kids younger than her, way younger. She doesn’t want to marry a stranger, but it’s an option. A much less bloody one and, perhaps, the best choice she has. The best choice they all have.

“What are their terms?” she asks quietly.

A hush falls over the room. She repeats herself, louder this time.

Clarke is the first to shake the shock off. “Just a marriage,” she says. “We bring our supplies, and integrate with their people. Blend. Become a part of them.”

Her stomach twists. She doesn’t know them. And what she’s seen of them, she doesn’t necessarily like. “Who am I supposed to -- marry?” The word slips off her tongue strangely, the concept something she dreamed about only in fantasies she knew she would never have, could never have. Until now, apparently. Earth. Go figure.

“The leader’s nephew,” Bellamy grounds out, fingers clenched tight into angry fists. “And this is damn well not happening!”

She crosses her arms, stubborn. “I’m doing it,” she says firmly. To Clarke, “I’ll do it. Tell their leader I’m in, okay?”

 

-

 

Bellamy protests, and wavers between the silent treatment and begging her to change her mind. But Octavia doesn’t, and she won’t. It’s for the greater good. Bellamy’s been protecting her all her life, is still willing to die for her -- willing to risk everyone’s life for her -- but it’s her turn now.

It’s her turn to protect him. 

The grounders come back the next day, as promised. It’s a tense exchange at first, Bellamy’s distaste in the treaty and all its provisions as clear as day, but everything settles when Clarke leads Octavia out like some twisted walk down the aisle. She feels a hundred pairs of eyes on her, feels the crushing pressure of  _doing the right thing_ coupled with  _leaping into the unknown_ , and she tilts her chin up, pretend defiant.

Fake it until you make it. It’s how she made it in the box. A scared little girl turned rebel with an attitude, unbreakable because she  _made_ it so. 

And maybe it works, because their leader, Ana, looks vaguely pleased.

She’s whisked away to a tent afterwards, not far from the camp she spied on the night prior. There, Ana inspects Octavia thoroughly -- her hair, her teeth, her fingers and her toes -- and nods in a way that Octavia hopes means she’s acceptable.

The rest of the day is nearly a blur, a whirlwind of nerves and information Octavia can’t even begin to choke down.

The wedding ceremony is to be held at the grounders’ village. There is an entire rhythm to it that she’s supposed to learn before her arrival, and a grounder, Luther, who can’t be much older than Octavia herself, is tasked with explaining it. Luther isn’t very patient, or pleasant, but eventually Octavia can stumble through what she thinks are marriage vows without much trouble.

“Don’t you all speak English?” she asks afterwards. She honestly doesn’t remember hearing most of the grounders speak. Most of them use hand signals, if they communicate in front of the hundred at all.

Luther huffs, annoyed, like she’s tired of wasting her breath on the  _sky girl_. “Not all.”

Great, she thinks. Will her soon-to-be husband even understand her?

 

-

 

The grounders give them a day to pack. No one has much in the way of personal belongings, and they set out for the four day trek the next morning. 

It’s slow going, the days long and the nights even longer, but eventually they pass an ivy-covered statue that looms high above them, a stern man made of ivory-colored stone who sits in a straight-backed chair. And, past that, Octavia starts seeing signs of life. Small houses, domesticated animals --

“Is that a cow?” one of the younger kids exclaim.

Octavia doesn’t have long to ogle the cows, or the sheep, nor the tiny calico cat that lazes on a roof, before Luther snatches her out of the crowd and leads her away. She’s taken to a building where three other women, seemingly, were waiting for her. They don’t introduce themselves. They just grab Octavia, and get to work.

She’s told to strip, and wash in the tub. As soon as she’s in the steaming water, her hair is scrubbed with what she thinks is shampoo, and then combed and braided. She tries to tell them she can dress herself, and towel dry without help, but they don’t listen. Or, like Luther implied, maybe they can’t understand her protests. 

They paint her face, and then the backs of her hands with tiny, intricate designs that mean absolutely nothing to her. The three women talk among themselves the entire time, and Octavia’s bored to tears, feeling more and more isolated by the hour. She tries to remind herself that this was her choice, but it’s not at all comforting.

Night falls. She hears a steady drum beat in the distance start up, and the quiet murmur of people talking, like a crowd gathering together. She smooths her hands down the dress she’s been wrangled into, realizing it’s almost showtime. 

She swallows. What if her husband is an asshole? She’s used to Bellamy’s special brand, but he’s family. He’s her brother. They’re supposed to be antagonistic, some of the time. That’s just the way it works. But this guy, her future husband? She knows nothing about him. He could be a real dick, and she’ll be married to him. She won’t be able to leave. Unless grounders do divorce, which, what? She takes in a ragged breath and squeezes her knees, feels a gentle hand on her shoulder a moment later.

She looks up. 

It’s Luther. She smiles, lightly and surprisingly sympathetic, and says, “It’s time.”

Octavia’s stomach swoops, and her heart freezes, right before it ratchets up and speeds away. She wishes she had more time, but she doesn’t, so she stands, ready to face the inevitable. 

She’d led out to a pyre that burns bright and brilliant in the middle of the village, the rush and roar of blood in her ears drowning out the crackle of the fire. 

She stumbles through the crush of people, eyes flitting back and forth. She sees Bellamy, and Clarke, and Raven, a dozen familiar faces mixed in with strangers -- people she’ll call family, after tonight.

She comes to the platform, finally, but she’s not ready to go up. There’s a man standing with his back towards her, Ana staring down at her with a barely amused quirk to her lips.  _That’s my husband_ , she thinks, more than a little hysterical. That’s Ana’s nephew. The person she’ll spend the rest of her Earth days with. 

She sees movement in the crowd, Bellamy slipping between people, Clarke trailing mutely at his side. He nods when their eyes meet, jaw tight and unhappy. It gives her the kick she needs, a reminder of the reason why she even agreed to this stupid marriage in the first place.

Octavia swallows, and climbs the stairs with quivering legs.

As soon as she takes her place, Ana calls the gathering to order, and rolls into a loud monologue that Octavia can’t understand. It sounds close to English, here and there, but it’s hardly close enough. But Octavia picks up on the gist of it.  _Thank you for coming today and we’re here to join these two in barley mutual matrimony_ \-- standard stuff, probably. Did grounders often unite warring factions together like this?

She presses her lips together, realizing with a start that she hasn’t even gotten to see the face of her betrothed. God, she hopes he’s at least decent looking. It would just be her luck that she’s saddled with someone she doesn’t even want to look at. 

Her gaze skitters to the right, courage worked up, and she gasps.

“Lincoln?” she hisses, low.

He gives her a tiny, encouraging smile. She’s shell-shocked and stupid by it, and almost misses her cue from Ana to plod through her wedding vows. She makes it through the whole thing, though, and then Lincoln speaks, too. He bends down and she holds her breath, but he only presses a dry kiss to her cheek. It’s gentle, like every other time he’s touched her, and she feels the tiniest bit of hope flutter in her chest. Maybe this won’t be so bad.

Ana raises both their arms in the air after that, and the crowd surges up, yelling and laughing.

No one says it -- at least in a language she knows -- but Octavia knows that that’s it. 

She’s married now.

 

-

 

Lincoln stays by her side the rest of the night, stoic. For once, she’s silent, too. It’s a lot to take in. All her bravado in the face of this stark reality ( _I’m married I’m married ohmygod_ ) coming down around her shoulders until she’s dizzy and desperate to escape, but she can’t leave. She’s the guest of honor.

Someone passes a cup her way and she drinks from it, coughing at the harsh burn that slides down her throat. It’s smoother than Monty’s moonshine, but not by much. They laugh, and she grimaces.

“It’s strong,” Lincoln whispers into her ear, and moves the cup along to someone else. “Be careful not to drink too much.”

Normally, she would roll her eyes and wave the cup back her way. But she’s not in the skybox, or at their old camp with Monty’s unfiltered (but familiar) hooch, so she nods. Getting blind, fall-down drunk at her own reception wouldn’t do. Even she knows that.

“How long do we need to stay?” she asks, glancing over to meet Lincoln’s -- her freaking husband’s -- eyes. She flushes. He’s alarmingly handsome, the light of the fire glancing off his cheekbones, his lips. “It’s… been a really long day.” 

He gets up from his seat with a small smile, and offers her his hand without a word. She blinks up at him, and takes his hand a beat later, lets him haul her to her feet and lead her away. No one stops them. In fact, no one blinks an eye as they pass. She’s not sure where Bellamy is, but she’s glad he isn’t around to cause a scene.

Her relief at being away from the festivities is short-lived, however, when she remembers what usually comes after a wedding.

That is, a wedding night.

She swallows thickly, and drags her feet, suddenly unsure of being with Lincoln alone. Not because she feels unsafe -- though maybe she should feel that way -- but because she’s not ready for that step. Not yet. They’re strangers. He’s attractive, sure, and she’s attracted to him, but having sex… well, that’s something else entirely. He glances at her, and she tries to smile. 

Before she knows it, they come to a stop outside of a tiny cabin, one she assumes is Lincoln’s, and now theirs. She hesitates at the doorway, but Lincoln only looks at her serenely, unbothered by the way she bounces nervously on her heels. She wishes he showed more emotion. Emotion, period, actually. She’s known him for a grand total of maybe four hours and she already knows she won’t get much out of him.

“I can show you around the village, if you’d like,” Lincoln offers quietly. His fingers squeeze around hers.

She takes in a soft breath. “I’m sorry, I just--” She presses her lips together.

“You’re nervous,” he says, when she doesn’t say anything more. “Are you afraid of me?” 

She frowns, thinking. “No,” she says, honest to a fault and finding her words very true. “Should I be?”

His lips twitch downward. It’s not much, but it’s the most upset she’s seen him yet. “I would never hurt you, Octavia.”

The way he says her name makes her shiver, in a good way. It’s not fair, and it frustrates her. She tugs her hand out of his and gestures, a little wildly. “Because I’m your wife? Like, this is a lot for me. You can understand that, right? Yesterday I thought your people were going to kill all my friends, I’ve only been on Earth for a few weeks, and now I’m  _married_. To you. I don’t  _know_ you.”

He frowns, and she can’t help but feel like she’s -- hurt his feelings, maybe? She swallows, but she has nothing to apologize for. Everything she’s said is still true, however blunt her words might have been. She  _doesn’t_ know him, and she can’t pretend she’s not overwhelmed. 

“You will,” he says, after a long moment. 

“What?”

“You will come to know me. I promise. And I… hope that’s enough, for now.”

She smiles, fragile and nervous still, but she’s marginally comforted.  _At least he’s nice_ , she thinks. She could work with nice. “Yeah,” she says, “it’s enough.”


End file.
